I just spent the weekend at Coachella. I significantly underestimated how cool I would feel just saying that. I might never be the same.
I must admit that reaction was mixed when I announced to friends that I was going.
YOU are going to Coachella?
What the hell is Coachella?
For those who don’t know, it’s a 3-day music festival in Palm Springs, California. Tickets go on sale a year in advance and move quickly. Luckily for me, I have a friend who was on the ball and bought two tickets last May. And even luckier, the friend she was supposed to go with bailed at the last minute, giving me the opportunity to slip in and take her coveted wristband.
I spent hours going over the lineup. I consider myself to know a fair amount about music but I was shocked at the number of musicians whose names I didn’t recognize. But that was fine. I was eager to discover my next new favorite band.
I also spent an absurd amount of time trying to figure out what to wear. Music festivals are not runways but the fashion is certainly a sight to behold. I consulted my friend Allie at Wardrobe Oxygen who is not only a fashion blogger but an experienced music festival-ite. She wrote a nice post on what to wear to Coachella that I only clicked on approximately 25,000 times as I surveyed my utterly unhip wardrobe.
In spite of my eager cramming for Coachella, no articles or playlists could have prepared me for what we encountered. I’m going to be talking for some time about the pervasiveness of bralets as tops. I only hope the trend of wearing your denim shorts unbuttoned and folded down to reveal underwear is contained to the desert. Many skimpy bikinis were on display, not my first choice of what to wear to sit in the dusty grass. Hell, it’s not my first choice of what to wear to the beach.
While the style was interesting the music was phenomenal. I still have a medley of Broken Bells songs stuck in my head. They were a favorite before the festival but earned my deeper adoration with their live performance. I discovered a new favorite: Future Islands. Sadly I missed the much-written about Beyoncé appearance on her sister’s stage because, frankly, I didn’t know Solange was her sister. I am to be forgiven for that because I got close enough to Jared Leto to run my fingers through his ombréd mane, though of course I resisted such temptation.
I discovered a new skill. I’m an adept crowd pusher. (Now I know how rough it is to be salmon.) I’m still working the dust out of my eyes from Saturday’s sand storm. (Weekend two attendees: bring swim goggles.) Six pairs of shoes turned out to be way too many but three hats was just the right number.
This year has been about doing things I haven’t done before. You know, like writing a book. Coachella fit neatly into the “experience I’ve never had” box. I feel fortunate that I had the opportunity to attend. I wasn’t even the oldest one there, as some so-called friends might have suggested I would be. And who knows, maybe next year I’ll rock the bralet.